


One Thousand

by in_lighter_ink



Category: Leverage
Genre: 1-500 words, Comment Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-04
Updated: 2011-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-21 00:55:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/in_lighter_ink/pseuds/in_lighter_ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Leverage, any, it started as a way to pass the time during a job</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Thousand

Most often, it was a member of the cleaning staff who discovered them. Sometimes, if they'd been found at a desk, it was an overly 'diligent' personal assistant, or, after the most spectacular jobs, it was an FBI agent or state police officer who stared, perplexed, before placing the little objects into an evidence box with slightly more care than had been shown the other, more damning, pieces of paper cluttering the office.

Those were the most incongruous, out of place among the other things in the office they inhabited, crafted as they were out of ordinary paper: clipped from yesterday's newspaper, purloined from the recycling bin, cut from a desk calendar. Simple, ordinary materials ill-fitting with the mahoganies and golds and expensive electronics that filled the rest of the room.

Most people who found them dismissed them as an idle fancy, something to pass the time on a phone call or during a break: things to fill a moment, then left behind when the moment was over.

This was, on the whole, correct, but there was a 'however' that muddied the area between 'right' and 'wrong.'

They'd assumed that the figures had been made by someone who worked in the building, someone who was meant to be there.

The tiny folded paper sculptures didn't fit with the expected office building accoutrements, their creator didn't fit the expected character traits of a professional criminal. Most people would believe that thin paper would rip under broad hands, that delicate figures would perish under a heated temper, that a man given to violence would never be able to appreciate -- let alone have the patience to learn -- so intricate an art.

Most often, Eliot folded cranes, though he'd never admit to keeping count.

One thousand was just a number in much the same way that he was just a hitter.


End file.
